


Face in the Mirror

by whentheyfall



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Gen, I Don't Even Know, My First Fanfic, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stress Baking, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Time Travel, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2020-10-19 15:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20659706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whentheyfall/pseuds/whentheyfall
Summary: "Oh Master," Death laughed, a harsh sound like the edges of worlds grating together. "Master of Me. You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into."But Harry Potter had very rarely known what she was getting into, and it had never stopped her before. So she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin like her heart wasn't beating out of her chest and her legs were perfectly steady.She looked Death straight in the eyes and said,"Try me."





	1. Eyes On Me

"Who's there?"

Her voice cracked like a whip through the still night air. Her hand did not tremble on the shaft of the wand she kept stowed under her pillow and yet, beneath the tangled sheets her legs shook, as unsteady and fearful as a newborn fawn's.

"Show yourself!" Harry demanded, eyes roving every corner of the room. In the mirror they burned an eerie green under the conjured witchlamp, reflecting the light like a cat's. She could feel chills racing up and down her spine like spectral claws. There was a heaviness to the air that sat like acid on the back of her throat.

Still, nothing moved, and after several long moments, her mouth began to soften from its grim set of determination. Her eyes, too, gentled as she lowered her wand, easing into a subtle glow. Harry let out a shaky breath and rubbed her hand over her face.

"Just a dream," she said to herself. The air, now, did not seem so heavy. But the wildness in her had not completely dissipated, and in a sudden, uncoordinated surge, she threw off her covers and lunged from bed.

Her left knee buckled, but she had expected that and caught herself easily on the edge of her unused writing desk. Another ungainly hobble-leap saw her to the wardrobe, then the door frame. From there it was a straight shot to the kitchen counter and Harry lowered herself gratefully onto a stool, right next to her old fashioned muggle oven.

"Lumos," she commanded absently, and the room flooded with light as though it were midday and not two o'clock in the morning. She kicked out another stool and propped her bad leg up on its cushion. Immediately, Hermione's charms kicked in and a rush of blessed coolness enveloped her throbbing knee and calf.

Harry carefully rolled up the leg of her pajamas and couldn't help but grimace at the sight. Wide, ugly red lines wrapped around her leg from ankle to knee, so dark they were nearly black at the center, and fading in odd wisps and curls to a burnt orange at the edges. Truthfully, it looked more like she had a tattoo of a fiery whip curled around her rather than the scar of one.

She flinched back, nearly falling off her seat as memories beat at the edges of her vision. A high, cruel voice spitting curses in a hissed language, terror strong enough that she thought her heart would burst, and an agony so overpowering she believed her leg completely gone, flayed to bloody strips of skin and bone shards-

"NO! No. No. Three- three things you see, three things you feel, three things you hear."

Pale blue walls, lacy white curtains, dishes cluttering the tiny sink. Numbing spell, soft cushion, hair brushing her neck and arms. Ticking muggle clock, wind in the trees, hoot of an owl in the field. The world firmed around her, Voldemort dead and buried once more.

"Merlin," Harry groaned, planting one elbow on the counter and digging her fingers into her tangled mass of hair. In her other hand, she still clutched her wand as though waiting for some unknown assailant to come bursting out of the woodwork.

Well, since she clearly wasn't going to be getting any more sleep she might as well get started. Saturday was a big day, after all.

With a sweeping, impatient flick of her wand like a conductor's baton, the icebox and cupboards burst open and ingredients flew out in a great rush to assemble themselves on the counter before her. Harry waved at the oven and it began to preheat, and the stove flame burst into existence.

Feeling perhaps more cheerful now--or at least less fearful--she gathered up her curls into one bunch and twisted them into a bun. She muttered a spell to lock it all in place and then unceremoniously stabbed her wand through the knot for safekeeping.

She grabbed it again in the next second, lips quirking up sheepishly even though nobody was there to see. She'd completely forgotten pots and pans. That was remedied quickly though, and before long Harry was up to her elbows in flour as at least three pots bubbled away cheerfully around her.

As the sun slowly inched its way over the horizon, peering shyly through the delicate kitchen curtains, Harry was squeezing the last of her churro dough into a boiling vat of oil. She opened the oven door with her good foot even as she stirred the caramel on the stove, waiting for it to turn the desired copper color. She abandoned it for a moment to take her melted chocolate chips off the heat, and then levitate the tray of brownies from the oven to the cooling rack by the sink.

By the time she turned back to said caramel, it was ready. Harry dumped in the butter and cream and stirred vigorously, then remembered that she was supposed to check the brownies to make sure they were done all the way through. She summoned them from the cooling rack and stabbed the center with a toothpick a few times before she was satisfied.

A timer beeped and Harry whipped back to the vat of oil where the churros had become maybe slightly too brown. She hissed- an exclamation nobody else alive now was likely to understand- and took them out, quickly using a spell to coat them in the prepared cinnamon sugar. The smell of burning sugar caught her attention, and Harry turned back to the caramel just in time to save most of it.

That reminded her- she cast a quick stasis spell on the melted chocolate to keep it from concealing, then another on the rescued caramel.

Now done with everything that required heat- Harry cast a suspicious glance over the kitchen to make sure she had, in fact, taken care of it all- she turned to the last thing she was to do. Frosting for the cupcakes which were currently chilling in the icebox. She whipped the softened butter by hand, because it was hard to control the proper consistency with magic and her electric mixer had finally given up the ghost last week and she'd forgotten to get a new one. She sifted in the icing sugar and kept mixing in the other ingredients, but then decided she wanted it to be lemon part way through and summoned one. She added it to only half the icing because she knew Luna was allergic.

Finally, at half past six in the morning, Harry had finished baking everything she wanted to and a warm sense of accomplishment filled her. She was well ahead of schedule for once in her life, so Harry spent another twenty minutes carefully piping the pale yellow frosting onto her cupcakes so that they looked like little roses. She drizzled caramel and melted chocolate artfully across the brownie squares and added some sea salt for contrast. The churros were done as they were but she decided to use the last dregs of her heavy cream and melted chocolate to make some dipping sauce, just because she could.

Finally, Harry divided her delicious spoils into several cute baskets with ribbons and even transfigured little namecards to go with them, something she hadn't done in weeks. Then, seeing the time on her muggle clock, Harry yelped and threw herself off the stool, hobbling quickly to the bedroom to get changed. It was nearly eight! They would be here any second!

Indeed, Harry barely had time to throw on some fresh robes, splash her face with water, and give her teeth a lightning fast scrub before she heard the telltale pop of apparation just outside the door.

"Harry?" Hermione's pretty soprano called. "You ARE awake, aren't you?"

"Lighten up Mione, it's Saturday!"

"The weekend doesn't give an excuse Ron, you know how important routine is to recovery!"

Harry couldn't help but smile at the sound of bickering as her best friends let themselves in.

"I'm awake, Hermione," she said as she limped into the cramped living room.

Bushy brown curls filled her vision as Hermione seemed to apparate again to envelop her in a hug. Ron's longer limbs wrapped around them both, and Harry melted into the embrace as if she hadn't seen them less than three days ago.

"Smells brilliant, mate!" Ron said as they broke apart, nose twitching hopefully. Harry laughed as Hermione sighed.

"On the counter, Ron."

"Thanks, Ry, you're the best."

And he was off just like that, vanishing through Harry's open bedroom. It was built as the nexus of the house to make it easier for Harry to get around, though that had the side effect of requiring all visitors to go through her bedroom to get anywhere but the living room. She wasn't fussed about it, mostly because the only people she ever invited to her house were those who she wouldn't care about seeing her discarded underwear on the floor. Nobody else even knew where she lived, so surprise visits weren't a problem either.

She and Hermione followed Ron at a slower pace. Hermione took her arm breezily, with an oblivious look that truly didn't suit her when Harry tried to glare in protest. Nevertheless, it was faster and easier to get around with help, and Hermione knew Harry too well to make the mistake of pitying her. So, just as always, Harry decided to allow the assistance.

When they got to the kitchen, Ron was already chewing vigorously. He held out a miniature rosette cupcake to his fiancé with a rapturous look on his face. Harry beamed at him as she sat down again. She loved Ron- no matter how unsure she was about any of her cooking or baking, at least he always genuinely enjoyed it.

"Oh Ronald, we haven't even had breakfast," Hermione huffed, but under the double onslaught of Harry and Ron's puppy eyes, she reached out and took the cake.

"Do you think the lemon is a bit much?" Harry asked. "I added it last minute and didn't really measure properly, you see-"

"It's perfect, Harry, shut up."

Harry laughed again, and was surprised at herself. She felt good, in a way she hadn't in ages. And considering the start to her morning, that was even more of a shock. Still, she wasn't about to look a gift unicorn in the mouth. Good days were rare enough as it was.

"So..." she said, leaning forward and deciding there on the spot to make the most of her rare mood. "How goes the wedding planning, hm?"

Enjoying the sputtering and frankly adorable blushes that comment elicited, the witch never noticed the way the air grew slightly heavy and warped, as though some great force were watching them through the Veil.


	2. The Lies We Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter (sorry, I know, they'll get longer eventually) but a little more intense, so skip to the end for warnings if you're easily upset or want to know.

_Harry’s old muggle watch, taken from Dudley’s second bedroom, beeps and she hastens to turn it off. Too late. Hermione looks up from her book, and narrows her eyes when she spots Harry’s expression. It softens with understanding when Harry keeps her seat, refusing to get up and turn the burden over to Ron. The locket is icy against her skin, that tiny ticking heartbeat seeming to laugh at her. _

“_Harry...” Hermione draws out, like a warning, but Harry holds her hands up. _

“_Mione please, come on. He’s exhausted.”_

“_It’s his turn,” she says like its physically painful. _

“_He’s injured,” Harry returns. “You and I both know blood loss is no joke. You’ve seen how he is when he wears it. It hurts him more than the both of us combined.”_

_Hermione looks pained, but does not deny it. “But Harry, it’s got a bit of You-Know-Who in there- do you really think _ you’re _ the best one to be taking an extra shift? Let me have it-”_

“_No, Hermione!” Harry snaps, then takes a deep breath. “You just had your go. I’ll just keep it for another hour or two. Then you can have it until Ron wakes up, okay?”_

“_I suppose,” says Hermione, but there’s an undeniable light of relief in her brown eyes. She sticks her nose back into her book quickly, as if to keep Harry from noticing it. Harry shakes her head. Hermione had nothing to be ashamed of, not wanting to hang onto a Horcrux any longer than absolutely necessary. _

_Unnoticed by any, even herself, she draws a finger slowly up and down the freezing chain. Horcruxes were, after all, incredibly dangerous and powerful, not to mention darker than anything she knew. Yes, so very, very powerful…_

…

“…_-e can’t very well just leave her!”_

_Harry freezes, one hand extended towards the tent flap, blood turning to ice in her veins. _

“_Of ….rse not, Hermione! That’s not what… saying at all. But, haven’t you noticed- haven’t ... noticed how different she is? I didn’t notice at fi… thought she was just being her usual, saving-people self, but she take...opportunity to wear the locket… like You-Know-Who-”_

_Harry jerks backwards, quickly muffling her ragged gasp behind her hand. The faint whispers stop and she bolts, darting behind a tree, and Ron sweeps the tent flap aside a moment later, peering out into the darkness._

“_Harry? Is that you, Ry?” Harry studies his face through the branches, something absurdly like a lump building in her throat. He looks good- maybe not in prefect heath, but a thousand times better than before. The shadows under his eyes aren’t so purple, and his freckles don’t stand out like blood splatters the way they did even last week. _

_A wave of viciousness rises in her. SHE was the one who’d fed them all for the past weeks like a good little maid, SHE was the one who risked her soul going out to get ruddy groceries because Won-won missed Mummy’s cooking, and SHE was the one who put up with a sliver of the Dark Lord’s very essence hanging around her neck like a noose so that _ they _ didn’t have to! And yet, there Ron Weasley sat, COMPARING HER TO LORD VOLDEORT, THE MONSTER WHO KILLED HER PARENTS-_

_Harry blinks quietly, surveying her surroundings. They don’t seem to have changed much. Green, white, gray. Trees, snow, clouds. She looks down at her hands. They’re coated, almost completely, in something red and coppery smelling. She rubs her thumb and pointer-finger together, and discovers that it is thick, wet, almost slimy. Harry moves to rub them off on her trousers, some distant sense telling her that something is Wrong, but to her surprise, those are also drenched._

_Mechanically, she takes her wand from her pocket and mutters a spell through clumsy lips. She siphons the- the blood off her clothes, her hair, her skin and stands there, looking at the nasty, shining whirlwind of red fluid twisting in the air. The Wrongness starts to creep in a little more and, suddenly infuriated, Harry sets the blood on fire with a wordless shout. _

_It splatters and sears the trunks of nearby trees and Harry turns away, suddenly unable to bear the sight, only to find the carcass that all the red came from. _

“_Ah,” she says softly, relief sweeping through her from head to toe. “Only a deer.”_

_And then she doubles over, bile stinging the back of her throat, and vomits long past the point of an empty stomach. Every time she closes her eyes, the deer has ginger hair and a cheerful grin, it has bushy brunet swaths and wide, trusting brown eyes, and Harry can’t breath. She dry heaves in the snow, on her hands and knees, until every part of her is numb and some hidden, animal instinct drives her to her feet. _

_Her hands, though, claw at the front of her robes as she stumbles through the snow, nearly knee-deep. She yanks the chain over her head, wrapping it in her fist as she stares down at Slytherin’s Locket, swinging innocently in the wind. _

“_I hate you,” she whispers. “I HATE YOU!”_

_The locket, for the first time, grows warm in her grasp, and Harry throws it away with a cry, scrambling back and raising her wand. _

“_Confringo!” she bellows. “Depulso! Incendio! Reducto! Reducto!”_

_Snow evaporates instantly on contact, and earth bursts into the air as explosion after explosion rockets through the trees. Curse after curse she uses, some they’d already tried and some that she should never have learned, gleaned from the Restricted Section in dead of night with fear in her eyes and desperation in her heart. _

_Eventually she stops, panting, and lowers her wand. The locket sits there at the bottom of its crater, as spotless and unbroken as it ever was, as she knew it would be. Tears prickle at her eyes, but she is too exhausted to cry. Harry stoops and retrieves the locket, icy cold once more, and wraps it thrice around her wrist. She could no more willing drape that thing around her neck then she could fly without a broomstick. _

“_I hate you.”_

_Harry looks up at the sky, takes a deep breath, and apparates, neither knowing nor caring where her magic takes her, as long as it is not here, as long as it is far, far away from those she might hurt, might have hurt already for all she knows._

“I hate you.”

Harry woke up with burning words on her lips, dripping like poison off her tongue. She rolled over and spat them out like curses,

“I _hate_ you. I hate you- HATE you- I ha- I hate you-”

And shuddering, she lurched out of bed, clutching at her chest as if she could pry it open and pull out all the ugly, dark things that have made there home there, sheltered between her ribs and in the crevices of her heart.

“I hate you,” she sobbed, and she didn’t _want_ to. Hate was hideous, it was corrupting and insidious, and she was supposed to be above such things. What would her parents say, what would Dumbledore think? How could she be like this, betray everything they fought for so hard? She was a disgrace, a blight, pathetic and wrong- she ought to just-

Harry was not a disgrace, she was not pathetic or wrong. She was only human, and humans weren’t perfect. That’s what she was supposed to say to herself, at least. It was called ‘redirecting negative thought patterns’ according to Hermione, but on mornings like this, after nights like that, it felt an awful lot more like ‘lying to make yourself feel better’.

But Harry did want to feel better. Wanted it so badly it hurt. So she sat there and lied, told the ceiling that she had done the best she could, informed her socks that she had worth as a person, and by the time she’d worked up to telling the wardrobe she didn’t deserve to die, she could almost believe it, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: blood, not being in control of your actions, self-hatred, brief mention of suicidal inclinations. (And, uh, vomiting I guess? I had this one friend who completely freaked out if she even read something wherein somebody threw up.)
> 
> Also, thanks so much for the kudos, ect! It may not seem like a big deal, but it is my first every published fic, so rest assured, there was some squealing and jumping for joy involved. I can hardly believe that anybody actually read this, much less seemed to enjoy it. XD


	3. Things That Lurk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And things are finally happening! Warnings at the bottom.

Harry took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She glared at the face in the mirror, pale and wan and vaguely tired-looking, and was satisfied when it hardened into something that might be called fierce. _Determination_. That was what she needed, and by Merlin if there was one thing Harriet Potter had in spades it was sheer stubbornness. Er, determination.

Whatever.

She made one last face at the mirror and began to turn away, only to startle as something dark and vague flickered in the corner of the glass. Her wand was out in a flash, but it was gone and a careful survey of the room revealed nothing either. She took a slow breath, tasting the air. Sure enough, it sat heavy and acrid on the back of her tongue, with an oddly electric tinge that made the hair rise on the back of her neck.

“_H__o__menum revelio_,” she whispered. Nothing. Harry spat the taste from her mouth and stomped out of the bathroom as angrily as her limp would allow. It had only been a few days, on and off, but she swore there was something watching her. She’d rechecked the wards probably near a dozen times, even asked Hermione to look at them, and there was _literally nothing wrong_. What that told her was either Harry had finally gone ‘round the bend, or the whatever-it-was wasn’t affected by wards at all. Which was, of course, something she’d never even heard of. Just her luck!

At least it wasn’t trying to kill her as of yet.

Regardless, Harry mused as she lit the stove to whip up some eggs, she was quickly running out of patience with it all. She’d had more nightmares and- and _episodes_ in the last week than since the time directly following Voldemort’s defeat. Hermione, well-meaning though she always was, thought that Harry just wasn’t keeping up on things.

“Humph,” Harry grumbled, slamming a pan down with slightly more force than necessary. “Stupid dreams. Stupid Voldemort. Stupid _stove! Light_, you ruddy piece of-”

The flame vanished again, leaving nothing but the rotten smell of gas. Maybe she should’ve taken the risk and gotten an electric stove after all. With a muffled exclamation that might have been a cuss word, Harry rose to her feet. Breakfast could wait.

She grumbled all the way to her bedroom, all through getting dressed. She grumbled as she wrote a cheerful letter to Hermione, and a slightly more honest one to Ron. She grumbled louder when the water in the shower came out lukewarm instead of hot, and she _shrieked_ when she finally made her way back to the kitchen and failed to light the stove one last time.

“What do you WANT?!” Harry bellowed, swiveling around in her stool as if the mysterious watcher would be standing right behind her. It wasn’t, but the honking daffodils in their pot shrunk from her, ducking their vibrant little heads behind leafy arms.

“Oh, no,” Harry exclaimed. “There now, please don’t cry- Neville will never forgive me-”

The mention of their original owner, the one who nursed them from seedlings, seemed to be too much, and the whole lot of them burst into noisy, hiccuping honks. Harry groaned and raked her hair back from her face, holding it in both hands. Then she stood.

“I’m sorry, really I am,” she said, shoving all of her frustration down. She reached out slowly to one of the smaller buds. It quivered, let out a reedy _honk_, but slowly unfurled a thin leaf in Harry’s direction. It brushed against her finger and the flower relaxed. Immediately, the other flowers stopped leaning away from her, creating an odd sort of reverse ripple effect. She couldn’t help but smile a little, despite herself.

“There now, was that really so bad?”

The littlest daffodil, the one she’d touched, let out a honk that sounded almost sheepish.

“Well, I forgive you in any case,” Harry said as she straightened up. Then something cold ghosted across her skin, a surge of icy electricity, full of Wrongness, and Harry whipped around and fired off the first spell that came to her lips.

“STUPEFY!” The window above the sink shattered and a dark-robed figure lurched forward towards her with startling speed. Harry barely managed to spin out of the way, tripping over her own dragging leg, as the man rammed himself into the wall, his momentum too great for him to stop. The flower pot crashed to the floor and shattered, and the daffodils didn’t so much honk as wail. Harry slashed her wand forward in those precious seconds before he found his feet again.

_Incarcerous!_ Silvery ropes sprung into being and knocked her attacker flat on his back. He lay there, struggling and snarling like a wild animal. The back of her neck tingled like she was still being watched, but as she half turned, keeping the man in her peripheral vision, there was nobody there. This was _not_ the mysterious watcher. A minion, maybe? Or a victim?

Harry kept her wand pointed directly at his heart as she circled closer, and he followed her movement with eerie, dilated eyes. It didn’t look like he was under the Imperius, but certainly _something_ was affecting him.

“Who are you? What do you want?” she demanded, and was not surprised when the man only growled. He looked incredibly familiar- she was certain she’d seen his sharp features before. But there was a peaky quality to him that didn’t belong on such brown skin, and massive bags beneath his eyes. Long, slanted eyes with a thin ring of dull hazel around the unnaturally large pupils.

Harry nearly dropped her wand in shock.

“_Zabini_?!” It had been nearly two years and a prison sentence, and his formerly cropped hair was long enough to brush his shoulders, but it was unmistakably Blaise Zabini. He writhed there mindlessly, snapping at the air. If he even recognized the sound of his own name, he certainly didn’t show it.

Something frowned in her at the thought. Zabini was a prat if there ever was one, as smug as a Malfoy, but unlike a Malfoy he wasn’t an idiot. And much more of a Slytherin. Even at Hogwarts he’d kept out of the nastiness that had later incriminated so many of his Housemates, and as far as she was aware, had stayed well away from the Death Eaters. He’d only ended up in Azkaban because of some business with illegally imported fairy dust gone south. It was wrong to see him this way, brought so low.

Harry wondered if he was on some kind of drug now, and leaned in closer to get a better look at his eyes, keeping her wand aimed at his heart. Zabini lunged upwards, the ropes creaking alarmingly.

“Depulso!” she yelped, and he slammed back into the tile, skidding back until he was stopped by the far wall, hardly a meter and a half away. Zabini continued to snarl and jerk against the ropes, without so much as a gasp of pain, and a vague warning tickled at the back of her mind.

Something was not right, even more than the fact that one of her most cautious and sly former classmates had attacked her like a raging Gryffindor in the middle of her highly warded house without tripping a single alarm. Harry shot off another stunner to knock him out and stumbled back when there was no effect. The warning bells screamed, and she reeled in horror.

Inhumanly fast, strong, resistant to spells, mindless bloodlust, feels no pain--Zabini was gone. He was dead, and howling on the ground before her was his reanimated corpse.

The ropes snapped. Harry lifted her wand--when had she dropped it?!--but it was too late. Her scarred leg chose that precise moment to flare with pain, and that was it for her. The inferi was on its feet in one instant, and in the next her head cracked against the floor as she sprawled there, pinned by its superior body weight. However dead the inferi was, it still had just enough presence of mind to rip the wand from her hand.

“No!” she cried, and brought her free hand around to claw at its eyes. The inferi caught it, capturing her hand in an unnaturally strong grip. Its other hand shot unerringly for her throat and squeezed.

_-the silver hand wrapped around her throat, crushing, as Pettigrew drove her down onto her back. _

“_You are nothing,” he cried, not even seeming to notice as she kicked and scratched, anything to get away. “The daughter of the great James, the good Lily--but who’s the great one NOW, Potter?”_

_His watery eyes were alight with malice, euphoria. Harry could not breathe, she couldn’t breathe- her eyesight stared to grow blurry and her chest was a riot of terror._

“_I am greater than they ever were--how can the wretched dead match the strength of the living?!--and now I accomplish what even the Dark Lord could not! I will kill you, Harriett Potter, and-”_

_The locket, so long dormant and icy around her wrist, _howled _ and began to burn. Pettigrew flew across the clearing, fell with a meaty _ thunk_, and did not move. Harry’s hands flew to her neck and she gasped desperately, the air rasping and catching in her windpipe. Tears slid down her cheeks as she trembled-_

Her vision dimmed. Her heartbeats lagged. Her lungs seared. And it was Blaise Zabini’s empty animal eyes that bored into hers, liquid pools of darkness and cold--gateways into death. Her fingers twitched. She raised her quavering arm, planted her hand on the inferi’s chest, and thought:

_Incendio_.

She wasn’t quite prepared for the explosion that followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: cannon-typical violence, choking, exploding things, still that creepy feeling of being watched (does that require a warning??? Idk what I'm doing here)
> 
> Also thank you guys so much for all the way-too-complimentary comments and encouragement! It really means the world.


	4. What We Become

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at the bottom as usual.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter and find it to be a somewhat different take on the MoD!Harry trope. This is where the "This isn't going to go the way you think" tag starts to come in to play, I believe.

When Harry opened her eyes, it was to a sight that had haunted her dreams- good and bad- more frequently than any other. King’s Cross loomed white and pristine, the soaring chamber empty of people. Harry looked around slowly, half expecting to see Dumbledore materialize out of the air. It struck her suddenly that she wasn’t wearing any clothes, just like last time, and that would definitely make for an awkward reunion. As soon as she had the thought, a pair of simple undergarments and robes appeared in front of her and she pulled them on with all due haste.

It was an odd thing, she thought, to be dead again. Harry looked down at her hands. The last thing she remembered was flying through the air for a brief, agony-filled second. Then she was waking up here, in the train station that was not a train station.

Her hands shook. Harry bunched them into tight fists, shaking the sleeves of her robes down to cover them. She jerked her head up, surveying the area as though it were a matter of grave importance. Her breath was coming faster, and Harry forced herself to ignore it. She hadn't been afraid last time, why should now be any different? 

Boldly, she threw her shoulders back and strode forward. She did not limp- her leg didn't even twinge. Harry began to jog, starting off slowly, then breaking into a run. Before long, she was pelting full speed through this strange, sterile, lifeless train station.

Platforms flashed by. And every time Harry saw a bench out of the corner of her eye, she ran just a little bit faster. She did not want to think, to remember. She didn't want to know what had happened to the soul of Tom Marvolo Riddle. 

Harry skidded to a halt in front of the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten. She gazed up at it, breathing heavily, and _wondered._

What if she did take a train? Would it take her to her parents? To Sirius and Dumbledore and everybody else who should never have died so soon? Or was she destined for a place with the likes of Bellatrix and Tom and a thousand other wizards who had made all the wrong choices?

Or perhaps Harry was mistaken, and nothing but oblivion waited beyond this place. What if this was just a construct, something her dying mind had cooked up in its last moments and as soon as it faded she would cease to exist?

Harry reached out a stupid, shaking hand to touch the barrier.

"And where do you think _you're _going?" 

Harry spun around, heart leaping into her throat. She pressed her back flat against the wall, wishing desperately for a wand that did not appear. 

Tom Riddle raised an eyebrow, perfectly at ease in robes so dark they somehow hurt to look at. Not that she dared look away.

"And here I thought you were brave." 

His eyes- Merlin, his eyes were solid white, with no sign of pupils or irises anywhere, yet by the way he sneered at Harry he saw her just fine. The air sparked coldly, heavy and acidic and completely at odds with the peaceful aura of the train station.

Harry stiffened in recognition. 

"You?! It was you watching me, all this time? You sent Zab- the inferi?" she demanded, digging her fingernails into her palms. Her mind raced- there must be some way to escape, to defeat him, anything. She'd done it before, after all. Only this time she was already dead. They both were. And despite that, Tom Riddle had enough power to send an inferi after her in the living world- who knew what he was capable of?

"Indeed," Tom said, tilting his head. A wave of dark hair fell across one creepy eye. He didn't say anything else, just stood there. Watching her. Waiting. Harry studied him back warily, tensed to spring into action at any second. He stood perfectly still, and this was wrong to her, somehow. Tom was never still. In every encounter, every memory, there was a restlessness about him. He paced, rambled, tapped his fingers, twirled his wand, gestured grandly, even fidgeted when he was young. No, Tom Riddle did not know peace nor patience, and she doubted that less than twelve months of the Great Beyond had given him either.

"Who are you?" Harry bit out. The imposter smiled with Tom's face and bowed fluidly, awkwardly, like he had never done it before but seen the gesture a thousand times. 

"Well spotted, Master. Well spotted."

Harry recoiled.

"Wha- don't call me that! Who do you think you are?"

"Why, your humble servant, of course!"

"I don't have any servants, nor do I want any," Harry said coldly. Her skin itched. There was something very, very Wrong with this man.

"You do though," he insisted, pearly eyes wide and imploring. A hint of a smirk lifted Tom's lips. Harry felt sick. He took a step forward and Harry darted to the side, refusing to be trapped.

"Stop right now!" Harry backed away from him and the imposter did not follow, smiling blankly. She bumped into something solid and warm, and when she turned he was standing behind her. She yelped and swung, and her fist slammed against unyielding flesh. Tom's face blinked down at her, terribly amused, as a bruise blossomed on his jaw and faded again, as fast as it had appeared.

Harry darted a glance behind her, and saw nobody. She stepped back a pace, shaking out her stinging hand.

"_What_ are you?" she whispered, dread knotting in her stomach. 

"Finally a relevant question, Master Mine. But I think you already know the answer." 

Harry licked her lips.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Its only a myth. Besides-"

_I destroyed the Wand. The Stone is laying somewhere in the Forrest, one pebble among thousands. It can't be._

"Don't lie to yourself, Master dear. You know you're no good at it. Who am I?"

"Shut up," she snapped. 

"Who am I?"

"I said shut up!" Harry snarled, her breath started to come raggedly now. This couldn't be happening to her.

"_Who am I?"_

"Shut UP!"

"WHO AM I?" The voice rattled and hissed, grating painfully against her senses, and Harry clapped her hands over her ears.

_"DEATH!" _she cried, and the horrible feeling stopped. "You're... you're Death."

And Death looked down at her, pale eyes glimmering in her dead enemy's skull, and grinned. 

"Yes, I am. And who are you?"

"The Master of Death," she spat, not caring how bitter she sounded. 

"Yes," said Death, appearing inordinately pleased. "Master of Me. Undying. Immortal. Eternal. Aren't you _so_ proud of yourself?"

"Take it back," Harry said instantly. "I don't want it." 

Death crinkled Tom's brow in a facsimile of confusion. Every one of his expressions got creepier the longer you looked. 

"Take what back?"

"You _know _what! I don't want to live forever!"

"But you do want to live."

Harry opened her mouth and then closed it again, suspicious.

"I... Yes, I suppose."

There was no "suppose". Harry wanted to live. Desperately, fiercely, she did. How ironic it was that she only realized it when she was literally staring Death in the face.

"Well, it's an all or nothing deal, Master dear. You live and don't stop, or you don't live ever again."

"No exceptions and no refunds?" Harry scoffed to hide the way her voice shook. How dare he? Who gave him the right?

"Quite so." Death nodded, loftily oblivious to her sarcasm. "Any questions? Comments? Concerns?" 

"Yeah," Harry said, surprising herself. She ground her teeth together, feeling a surge of white-hot anger bubble up inside her, and before she knew it, it was bursting out like she was fifteen again, railing against the unfairness of the world.

"Yeah, I've got a _comment_ for you, you miserable sack of bones! You can take your filthy Hallows and shove off! It's you fault I'm dead, your fault- where do you get off now acting like I'm the unreasonable one?! But I don't care about your stupid games! I don't care about whatever it is you're trying to do. I've had enough of being used- you'll have to get your laughs somewhere else! So take. It. Back."

Death rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically, the expression wooden and eerie, as if it were crafted by an expert artist who had never felt or understood the emotion he was attempting to portray. But the every-present crackle in the air grew sharper, and somehow Harry knew she'd touched a nerve.

"Ah, I forget how young you are- even for a human, the pitiful creatures. You are prepared, then, to end your own life just to spite little old me? And you know, Afterlife isn't all it's made out to be. You'll not see your friends again, or whatever family you have left."

"I am aware," she said coolly, despite the sudden vision of Ron and Hermione that flashed through her mind, smiling at her with puffed-out cheeks and lips smudged with frosting. A strange calmness overcame her then. She would not die a coward, running from the inevitable. Not like Voldemort. Like the third Peverell brother, she would die with grace- even if there _was_ more than a little spite involved.

"Take it back. Let me die."

Harry closed her eyes, trying not to look as frightened as she felt in her last moments as- as what? She was already dead. Already ashes for all she knew. But she wouldn't let that smug prat see her fear. Harry anticipated coldness maybe, or a bright light, and just hoped that Ron and Hermione wouldn't take it too hard. That Teddy would be able to forgive his Godmother for not living long enough for him to remember her.

What she did not anticipate was Death bursting into laughter- deep and harsh, not high or cold like she would have expected. Her eyes flew open. Death grinned at her, the expression sickeningly familiar, and for once the human expression did not seem out of place on that pale, angled face. Tom was often delighted by the suffering of others, hers most of all.

"No," he said, still smiling.

"What do you mean 'no'?" she snapped, caught off guard and forgetting her resolution not to be graceless.

"No, Master dear, I don't think I will 'take it back'."

She stared at him. "Why?"

"Because you are the first so-called Master in such a terribly long time to not want immortality. And so of course I must give it to you!"

"So-called Master?" she repeated. "What's _that _supposed to mean?"

"Come now, do you really think that I would allow myself to be chained by a trio of sniveling mortals? That your petty human magic could control something greater than you could ever comprehend? No," Death laughed again, darkly. "The Hallows were never about that."

"So you just leave them lying around as bait to kill all the poor sods trying to live forever? And if by chance somebody does collect them who doesn't want immortality then you'll force it upon them! Is that it?" Harry quaked with fury. This- this curse, it wasn't something beyond anybody's control, some trick of fate. It was this cruel being's _choice_ to make her suffer, to tear her from everything she loved. And for _what_?

"And if it is?" Death smiled down at her, a shriveled cruel imitation, and it was clear any lingering amusement had fled. There was a dangerous light in his marble eyes.

Harry saw it. She understood the warning. She just didn't care.

"Then you'd be awfully pathetic, wouldn't you?" she sneered, hands still shaking with fury and fear. "An ancient, all-powerful bully on the playground! You claimed humans were pitiful. But by Merlin, that's the most human thing I've ever heard."

"Step carefully, Master Mine," Death hissed, the thin veneer of mortality stripped away as his voice rattled and spat, resonating somewhere deep inside her skull in a way that made her jaw ache and ears pop. But this time she didn't cower.

"No," she said, throwing his own words back at him. "No, I don't think I will. What happens when you inevitably get tired of me and kill me off? Will you send the Hallows back into the world with another made-up legend, snare yourself more victims for your petty torment? Or will you dispose of them entirely and make yourself a new game?"

"Despite your arrogant presumption otherwise, mortal, you understand _nothing_."

Harry laughed- loudly, mockingly- and ignored the note of hysteria that crept into her voice.

"A mortal _now,_ am I? But I'm not though, and that's on you! You and your PATHETIC TOYS! I should have BURNED THEM ALL-"

Harry let out a muffled cry as her back slammed against a hard surface. In a heartbeat, King's Cross was gone. Her feet dangled thousands of feet in the air, frigid sulfuric air clawing at her skin and hair. Death's strong, burning hot hand pinned her against solid rock at her collarbone, keeping her from sliding into the gaping abyss below. The facade of Tom Riddle was more ragged than ever, paper thin under the force of ancient anger.

She could see something bitter and hateful in those blank white eyes, a kind of old pain that had been festering longer than everything she knew had existed. 

Harry clutched at Tom's pale arm with both hands. Dead or not, falling into that pit would destroy her. Harry didn't know how she knew, but she'd never felt so sure of anything.

"I warned you, Master Mine," Death said through Tom's lips in that terrible, wrenching voice, the one that didn't belong to this world. "Did I not? I warned you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nothing remotely graphic, but I guess generally being shoved around a bit, yelling, stuff like that. No swearing though. You know, I'm not really sure how these warnings things are supposed to work- am I doing it right???
> 
> But anyway, I hoped you liked it- or at least didn't hate it. I know it's a bit different than anything I've read, at least, in these types of fanfictions. If you have any suggestions on how I can improve or anything off that you noticed, please point it out in a comment. Until next time!


	5. Down We Go

"I warned you," Death hissed again. "Next time you will listen to me." 

Harry stared into his wild white eyes and thought about obeying. She thought about dropping her gaze and bowing her head and whispering a reply. To agree and make the pain and fear go away. After all--that was second nature to her, wasn't it?

_Yes, Uncle Vernon. Right away, Aunt Petunia. Of course, Professor Dumbledore. _ _Anything for you, Tom._

She thought about it.

But-

She'd spent most of her life doing that. Would she spend her death cowering from this latest demon as well? Harry dug her nails hard into Death's stolen arm, flesh splitting beneath her fingers and hot blood dripping down her hands, and sneered for all she was worth.

"Not likely!"

Death snarled, and she'd heard less unsettling sounds from werewolves. It reverberated though the craggy rock against her back and she clenched her eyes shut against the overwhelming force of it. Death's hand crushed her harder still against the wall, a split second of breathless pain, and then she was falling.

The noxious air whipped past, her stomach swooping as gravity took hold, and Harry had a moment to appreciate the morbid fact that her favorite sensation was likely going to be the last thing she ever felt. If there _was_ anything after this, she doubted she'd be able to fly the same way again. A shout built up in her throat but Harry swallowed it down as Death's still, floating figure stared silently down at her, Tom's face as cold and hard as ancient marble.

Harry wrenched her eyes away. That murder's face would _not_ be the last thing she saw. She tried to picture Ron and Hermione, Sirius, her parents, anyone else, but it was like Tom's features had been seared into her retinas, and she was too scared to close her eyes to conjure up a proper memory. Instead she fell, silent and terrified and so alone, hair and robes flapping as she tumbled around and around in the currents.

_Don't scream_, she thought, tears pricking at her eyes._ Don't give him the satisfaction._

The world swirled past, light then dark, until the light began to fade and it was gray then black, gray then black. The darkness yawned below her, a gaping mouth eager to devour her. The temperature, already freezing, plummeted with her. The chill crept into her bones with insidious familiarity, a feeling that was mental and emotional as much as it was physical, as if all the happiness and hope and light had gone from the world. A wave of horror overtook the mindless fear. _Dementors_?

_Don't scream!_ Harry thought again, but the importance of it escaped her, lost in the wake of the prospect of being consumed by her worst fear.

"Expec- Expecto Patronum!" Harry yelled, voice carried away by the wind, but she didn't even have a wand.

She could feel frost gathering on her face, her extremities long since numb. With monumental effort, she righted herself in the air, spreading her arms and legs to slow her fall. The gale whipped tears from her eyes that froze on her temples, but through the haze Harry managed to see what lurked at the bottom of the pit.

She screamed.

Darkness coalesced far below her, writhing and bubbling like tar. Tendrils had formed, reaching sluggishly up towards her, and Harry's gorge rose at the sickening Wrongness of it all, far worse than even Death. She rolled, trying to avoid it _somehow_, but she couldn't find purchase in thin air. A strand of it rose of like a thick, lazy snake, fat and slow with the bodies of former victims.

As she flailed, her arm hit rock, and throbbing pain spiked past her elbow. Her hair whipped across her face, wild dark strands, and she screamed again and clawed at them despite the pain, thinking for a moment that the thing had gotten her. When Harry could see again it was closer than ever, already swallowing her field of vision. It was still reaching, tentacles as wide as tree trunks, and she was going to die. She was an ant, an insignificant insect faced with something bigger, badder, and hungrier and _she was going to die_-

Cold stone. Familiar voices in a hushed whisper. An almost painfully warm hand in her's. Another stroking her hair. Harry's eyes fluttered, almost against her own will. Her mind was foggy and vague. 

_"Harry!"_ said a shrill voice, cracking with relief. "Ron, she's awake!" 

"Yes, Hermione, I can see that," replied a second voice dryly.

Her eyes flew open. Harry shot upright, and two heads, one of frizzy dark hair and the other shaggy and carrot-topped, jerked back with practiced precision, well used to their best friend exploding violently out of injured unconsciousness.

"Ron," she croaked. "Hermione? What-how are-?"

"Careful, mate," Ron said, blue eyes crinkled with worry. Harry gaped at him.

"But-what happened? How are you here? Where _is_ here?" She cast her eyes around. They were in a room that was more like a cave, but obviously not a natural one. The black rock formed deep furrows and rivets as though the space had been dug by some massive beast, except there was no entrance or exit. The only light came from a dully glowing stone lodged in the low ceiling.

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances. Harry looked between them, searching for the blood, torn clothing, or trembling limbs that would betray injury. They seemed unharmed, though the same could not be said for herself. Her hand was a theobbing mess, she couldn't feel her toes, and it hurt to breathe.

Ron started to say something.

"Are. Are you dead?" Harry interrupted, heart squeezing sickeningly.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione hiccuped, tears shining in her big brown eyes. "I'm not, well, we don't really know. I'm so sorry- I think, I think _you_ are, for sure. Oh, _Harry!_"

Hermione threw herself forward and Harry had a split second to brace herself before the hug landed. Her chest burned, right where Death's hand had pinned her, but she clutched her friend anyway with her one good arm. They stayed like that for a moment, but the pain quickly escalated to unbearable levels.

Ron, who always knew no matter what type of mask she put on, quickly reached out and detangled them. He scooted closer, hugging Hermione with one arm, and holding Harry's hand with the other.

"It doesn't matter who's dead or not at this point. We're all here. Harry, I think we're meant to be leverage. That creepy bloke with the white eyes, the one who tossed us in here- he wants something from you, doesn't he?"

Throat tight with rage, Harry nodded.

"That's _never_ going to happen," she spat. And yet, Ron's words of leverage came back to her, making her stomach turn. With only herself at stake, she would never bend. But Ron? Hermione? Were their lives worth her spite and pride? It wasn't even a contest.

Ron and Hermione must have seen the thought in her eyes, because they both drew in sharp breaths and started talking at once.

"Harry Potter don't you _dare_-"

"Harry no, you can't even think-"

"What if he asks you to do something really terrible, like kill a baby-"

"It's not worth throwing away your _freedom_ Harry-"

_"Guys!"_ Harry shouted. "Please. I'm not going to just fold. But you might still have lives ahead of you, futures! You said it yourself, Hermione. I'm already dead. You can't ask me to throw you in front of a curse to save myself when I can't even be saved. Just... you need to let me go. I _love you_, more than anything."

"You-you-you IDIOT, Harry Potter!" Hermione shrieked. "How can- ooh, can't you see that's just why we can't let you do this?! Of all the absolute, utterly moronic-!"

"Harry," Ron said softly, a stark contrast to his iron grip in her hand. "We already watched you die for us once. Do you really think, after seeing you do it again, we'll be able to just go about our lives like everything is fine?"

Harry swallowed, lowering her gaze in a facsimile of acceptance. But inside, her mind was racing. She could tell them what Death said-- but, that didn't really change anything. She was unable to die only for as long as _he_ wanted it that way. And Ron was right. They'd never be able to move on if they remembered. So, what if they didn't remember?__

_ __ _

"I can't let you _die_ for me. I won't," she said, knowing they'd never believe it if she conceded just like that. Hermione opened her mouth to reply.

_ __ _

The air sparked and thickened.

_ __ _

_No! Stop!_ She wasn't ready yet! There wasn't enough time! Nevertheless, Death slid into existence before them, wearing Tom's face in a cheery grin, all signs of that unearthly rage gone. A chill crossed her spine.

_ __ _

"Hello again, Master Mine! Have you made your decision yet?"

_ __ _

"She's not your _anthything_," Ron snarled. He and Hermione had burst to their feet the moment the air twisted. Harry had tried to do the same, but her frozen feet refused to comply and her chest screamed with agony. Even now she clawed her way to a standing position, vision dancing with yellow spots.

_ __ _

"Silly mortal, of course she is. And, oh dear. Not looking too good, are you, _my_ darling?"

_ __ _

"Stop playing games," Harry snapped, standing at last with her back braced against the wall, friends posed protectively in front of her.

_ __ _

"But of course," Death soothed, voice silken and white eyes gleaming like a wolf's. "Ah, you _have_ made your decision! Well, that worked out quite nicely, I must say. You're stubborn of course, but you do have such convenient weaknesses!"

_ __ _

"Shove off! Harry isn't weak, and you won't be getting what you want!"

_ __ _

Harry's heart broke a little at the desperation in Ron's voice, but she steeled herself against it. She lifted her chin a little higher and met Death's gaze, hoping the hate in her eyes let him know that she didn't mean a word of what she was about to say.

_ __ _

"Alright," she said softly. "You win. I'm sorry for what I said. I'm sorry for being ungrateful. I would be honored-"

_ __ _

"HARRY NO!

_ __ _

"-to accept the title of the Master of Death, on the condition that you return my friends, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger-"

_ __ _

_"Stop, Harry, stop it right now!"_

_ __ _

"-safely to their homes, alive and unharmed in anyway, and without any memory of this event."

_ __ _

__

_ __ _

_"NO!"_

_ __ _

But they vanished in a shimmer of darkness, and then Death was right in front of her, face alight with triumph, eyes glowing like white fire.

_ __ _

"I accept."

_ __ _


	6. Dealing With Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I ain't dead yet? Sorry for the wait, but at least being stuck in quarantine gives me time to write. 
> 
> Warnings in end notes. I hope you like it!

The cave warped, twisting around her like the world's most demonic Floo network, whisking her through space. When it stopped, Harry collapsed limply, dry-heaving. Every part of her ached and burned.

"Charming," Tom's voice said dryly. She spat blood, saliva, and stomach acid onto strangely familiar slick green flooring.

"Shut up already," she hissed, tears stinging at the backs of her eyes.

_At least I saw them again, _she thought desperately_. I got to say goodbye. That's more than I got with anyone else._

"Why Potter, that's no way to treat an old friend! Your mother would be ashamed."

"I said SHUT UP!" Harry snarled, struggling to get her feet under her--the dark figure swam in yellow spots. "And since when do you call me Potter, anyway, you smarmy-"

Hands curled around her arms, lifting her the rest of the way up, vision practically useless. Harry tried to yank herself away, but the fingers curled tighter.

"Get off, bone sack!"

"Relax, Potter! If you'd just manage use your brain for a moment, maybe you'd see I'm trying to help!"

Something was not right. Despite herself, she froze, and sudden, sickeningly familiar power rushed through her, pouring from the hands still pinning her arms to her sides. Feeling returned to her toes, her arm gave a gruesome _pop_ as the bone slipped back into place, and her vision cleared just in time to see long, thick eyelashes blink open over fathomless _dark _eyes. Not white. Dark.

"You..." It was as if she couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think.

Tom smiled at her, the real Tom with his own face, convincingly warm and human and genuine.

"Hello again, Har-"

_Smack!_

"Do _not_ touch me, murder!" she howled.

Tom's hand flew to the side of his face, shocked for all of a second before his face contorted with rage. Harry only had a split second to realize punching the psychotic Heir of Slytherin in the face might not have been the smartest way to get him away from her--she should have kneed him in the groin at the very least--and her back smashed against solid stone yet again. Hopefully this wasn't setting a precedent.

Tom's eyes burned like dark fire as she scrambled to her feet, but he didn't move to curse her again. At the same moment, they began to circle one another. Harry remembered another dance like this, one that ended with Lord Voldemort dead on the ground, as mortal as any man.

"Feel familiar?" Tom echoed her own train of thought, tilting his head like a bird. A mocking little smile touched his lips.

Harry bared her teeth right back-- and yet, she couldn't help but remember that she'd picked up that expression from him.

"Always. Didn't turn out so well for you last time, did it?"

To her surprise, Tom laughed, and it wasn't the high, icy thing she remembered, but rather low and rough, tinged with bitterness. She couldn't help but feel, in some idiotic corner of her mind that never stopped coming up with such things, that it suited him much better.

"No, I'll give you that. But then, I've been here for months, Potter. I can use my magic--have you even managed to touch yours yet?"

Harry clenched her jaw, furious

"Why are you here, anyway?" she spat. Tom's smirk turned impish, and he said in a thoughtful tone of voice:

"Well, once upon a time, a loooong time ago, a witch named Merope decided that it was a good day to drug the Squire's son-"

"Tom, I swear--" she started. 

"You killed me, Harriet Potter," Tom murmured, ever so softly, but his eyes still burned. "That's why I'm here. You killed me, dear one. I thought we promised not to hurt one another."

Harry gaped.

"That's- you KILLED MY PARENTS, you delusional snake! You went after me before I ever knew you existed! You tried to kill ME more times than I can count! You-"

Tom let out a loud hiss, the Parsletongue equivalent of a wordless cry of frustration, and slashed his hand through the air. Harry flinched, but no spell was forthcoming.

"No, no! I'm not talking about all of that! Lord Voldemort was your enemy. He- I- you would have been killed if you hadn't done it first. I understand that! But Harry..."

Tom stopped circling abruptly. Her own feet halted without her consent. He gestured to their surroundings, and for the first time, Harry noticed where they were, and why it had all felt so familiar to her.

The Chamber of Secrets.

"You didn't kill Lord Voldemort here." Tom took a halting step forward, a muscle pulsing in his jaw now. Harry found she couldn't step back.

"You killed _Tom._ You killed me. You killed your best friend!"

"LIAR!" Harry screamed, the first word she'd ever said to the Dark Lord. "Friends?! _Friends_ don't try to drain other friends dry! They don't lie to them and manipulate them and-"

"I was DYING!" Tom shouted back, just as furious, and suddenly they were inches apart, breathing heavily. "Merlin, I just wanted to LIVE! Don't you dare try and say I manipulated you into it, either! I TOLD YOU-"

"I was _t__welve_, Riddle! How do- you never told me a thing! I didn't know what was going on!" she cried, beyond incensed. How dare he? How DARE he?!

Tom laughed again, almost hysterical now, and she had never seen him like this, so human and emotional with some thing other than hatred and fury

"Oh no Potter, you're the one who's lying to yourself! I still remember it. I remember it perfectly. '_Oh Tom, I'm so sorry! I can't imagine how awful it must have been, to be stuck in a book for fifty years! Anything I can do to get you out, anything at all, and I'll do it, I swear.'_ See, Potter?"

"No, no, no, you're twisting it!" Harry shoved at his chest with all her strength, forcing him back a step. "That was before you told me you were the one who grew up to kill my family! And do you remember when you did that, Tom, hmm? Do you remember? It was when you first came out of the Diary. I was so happy to see you. I thought we'd _saved _each other. I ran over and threw my arms around you."

"I hugged you back," said Tom, a distant expression on his face, brow creased as if trying to recall. As if he hadn't memorized every moment out of that miserable book; Merlin knew it was seared into HER brain for the rest of eternity.

"Yeah," Harry sneered, traitorous tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. "You did. And then you knelt down and whispered in my ear who you really were. And- and you wouldn't let go. You held me tight and stroked my hair while I screamed and cursed your name!"

"You were struggling so hard," Tom whispered. "Scratching, kicking-- you even tried to bite me once, but...

"But I was weak," Harry finished, and she lost the battle against tears-tears of anger as much as hurt. "And when I couldn't even move anymore, you still wouldn't let go."

"I- yes. You told me once that being held by a loved one was one of the things you longed for most, when you were young. That you regretted you couldn't have."

"Emphasis on 'loved one', Riddle," she spat, scrubbing an arm across her face. "That disqualifies you completely.

"Not at the time, it didn't," he pointed out, and Harry very nearly punched him again, even as a fresh wave of tears threatened to fall. What in Morganna's name was wrong with her?

_You mean other than everything?_ said a dry voice in her head, sounding suspiciously like Ron_. I mean, it's not like you're dead but technically immortal, confronted with the psycho who ruined your life, utterly helpless before him, after betraying your closest friends, or anything difficult like that._

"Shut it," she said to the inner voice as much as to Riddle. "It doesn't matter. That was years ago, anyway. Why are you really here? Just so you and Death can take turns tormenting me, or is there an actual reason?"

The second she said the word "Death", Tom's entire face twisted with hatred, and another emotion she'd only seen a few times before.

Fear

That look on Tom's young face, in combination with their current surroundings and the talk they just had, dredged up feelings Harry thought she'd already buried.

There was an ache in her chest.

_Stop_, she told herself forcefully_. He tried to kill you. Would have, if Ginny and Ron hadn't followed you into the Chamber. Stop feeling guilty!_

But every time she blinked she saw Tom's nearly translucent face, eyes huge with terror as he begged, Diary in one of her hands and Basilisk fang in the other. Her ears rang with it--"Harry please!"--and the echo of his dying scream.

Tom had opened his mouth to respond, but a shiver of Wrong went down her spine and Harry whipped around. Nothing. No hint of a shadow, or gleam of white eyes. She really, really wasn't fooled.

"Potter?" Tom asked, voice taut as he was sudden beside her. "What is it?"

"You can't feel that?"

"...Not a thing. Is it--you know?"

Harry stopped. She turned to look at Tom in utter disbelief. 

"I'm sorry, I must be delusional, but did you almost refer to Death as you-know-who?"

"Shut. Up."

Oh, as if!

"That's rich!" Harry laughed, gleefully latching onto the weak spot she found. "But don't you know, Tom, that fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself? You're already terrified enough as it is, poor dear-"

"Potter, I'm warning you-"

"You REALLY can't afford to be even more so. But don't worry, there's an easy fix! Just find an insulting or silly nickname--Mortimer, maybe?-- and you'll feel better. We did it all the time with, you, you know-"

"One more word," Tom hissed, having gone deadly quiet. Harry couldn't have stopped even if she'd wanted to, which she didn't.

  
"-but then again you weren't a tenth as powerful as Mortimer here. My personal favorite was "Lord Mouldyshorts", though I think Ron preferred "Voldewhore", which was a slip of the tongue but delightful anyway. And of course there was always "Little Tommy" which probably suited you the best-"

_WHAM_!

Harry cried out as she crashed to the floor, the entire side of her face an explosion of pain. Tom raised his fist again, eyes wild and--were those tear tracks on his cheeks?!

The fabric of the world twisted, and Death stopped Tom's wrist with two hooked fingers, casually flicking his arm to the side. Tom backed away from him, wiping furiously at his face.

_What is even happening right now_. She'd never seen Tom cry. She didn't even know he could! Just what had changed in the past few months to alter him so completely?

"Don't mind the vermin, Master dear. He's probably feeling a bit fragile right now, for the first time in his pathetic little existence.

Tom said nothing.

Her gut clenched. If this being could do this to Tom, who was a right piece of work, yet nevertheless one of the strongest, most stubborn and resourceful people she knew, then what was he going to do to her? Harry knew she was weak (_Going through an emotionally and mentally trying ordeal_! her inner Hermione railed) right now, with the nightmares and haunting memories and persistent, irrational terror. Well, at least her limp was gone.

"Why," was her flat demand, mercifully less fearful than she'd expected. "What have you done to him?"

"Ooh, are you worried?" Death grinned in a way that showed to much teeth but didn't wrinkle the skin around his eyes at all.

"No," Harry lied easily, scoffing. "I just wanted to know if it can be replicated. He ruined my life, you know."

"Ah ah ah," Death wagged a long, pale finger, but seemed utterly delighted. "No spoilers!"

The difference between the two of them was disturbing, almost as much as the similarities. She could place, now, why Death had been so creepy earlier, obvious reasons aside. He hadn't just been trying to replicate human expression, he'd been mimicking Tom's particular brand of almost playful, charming cruelty, with subpar results.

"Then, why is he here, anyway?"

"Same reason you are, Master Mine."

She glanced at Tom. _Which is?_

  
He bared his teeth back_. No idea; stop looking at me before I gouge your eyes out_. Or, that was how she translated the look at least.

"Yes?" she snapped at Death.

"I'm not going to tell you yet," he said promptly.

"But there is a real purpose," she pressed. "You aren't just tormenting us for person revenge reasons?"

Death was suddenly in her face.

"And what reasons might those be," he hissed and rattled like a possessed tea kettle. She clamped her hands over her ears and dimly noticed Tom doubling over in pain.

"Stop it, bone sack! Tom spent most of his life trying to live forever, and I collected your stupid Hallows!"

The pressure receded from her skull. Despite herself, Harry glanced over at Tom, and saw him wiping blood from his nose.

"Ah. I see." Death's presence still hung sharp and acidic in the air, and his white eyes glowed with an awful sort of power.

"New rule, Master Mine, Vermin. Don't mention my Hallows." There was something odd in the way he said 'Hallows', like the word was something hot he wanted to spit out, yet couldn't bear to.

"I still need you two alive. Or, my Master Dear, at least. Vermin's dead already, but it would be awfully inconvenient to destroy you as well."

Then he was gone, sulfuric tang with him, and Harry found herself staring across the Chamber into Tom's dark, furious eyes, and saw her own dread reflected there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
hitting (twice)  
Talking about minors dying and almost dying   
Death being Death  
Tom being Tom=psychotic behavior. Srsly, he's creepy.


	7. And In The Darkness, Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii again. I know, the last chapter was confusing, but this one should clear some things up at least. 
> 
> Warnings at bottom.

They didn't speak for a while. Harry's anger and hate had drained out of her, at least for the moment; she felt exhausted, wrung out, not to mention more frightened than she cared to admit.

She wanted to go home.

"It's... not always so bad." 

Harry looked up. Tom approached slowly, and she was struck by how little he resembled the last Tom Riddle she met in the Chamber. Skin paler, shadows under his eyes, hair tousled. Gone was the pristine Hogwarts uniform and Prefect badge; simple black robes took their place.

She, on the other hand, probably looked almost exactly the same. Rat's nest on her head, ripped clothes, covered in blood.

Absently, she spit some onto the floor, but her mouth flooded with the taste of copper again instantly. She probably cut her cheek open on her teeth when Riddle punched her.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. 

"No you're not," she said, snorting. "But it doesn't matter. I hit you first, and besides, a bruise isn't the worst thing I've gotten from you."

_A Horcrux in my face, for example_.

Harry crossed her arms, uncomfortable with Tom's heavy silence. His hands clenched and unclenched. If it were anyone else, she would have said he felt guilty. Since it was Voldemort, she only cursed him silently. She thought she was done with mind games and manipulation. 

"How do I get out of here?" Harry asked abruptly.

"I wouldn't have thought you'd want to. Your friends-"

"Not that," she snapped. "Of course not. I just don't want to have to see your ugly mug until Moritimer decides to come back and spill."

"Of course," Tom said, bowing his head graciously. Harry rolled her eyes. The whole "model student" act didn't work so well when he had bruised knuckles and a split lip.

"Just get on with it."

"As far as I've discovered, De--Mortimer is the only one who is capable of true travel here. Even then, I have suspicions that it is merely a trick of the mind, and no physical displacement is taking place, some of the time, at least. But I digress. This space you see began as a hole in the ground no bigger than a broom closet. I have managed to "build" it up, so to speak, into a near-replica of Hogwa--"

"So what you're saying is that there's a Gryffindor Tower and Quidditch Pitch? Thanks Riddle. I won't be seeing you." 

She turned and strode towards the Chamber exit. In her peripheral vision, Tom's face went tense and then he was jumping forward. Harry twisted away from his lightning quick grab at her arm, but he ended up between her and the exit anyway. 

"Get out of my way!" she demanded. 

"Don't, Potter-" 

"Why _not_?" 

"I don't know what he'll do if I let you get away and hurt yourself."

"You just said-" 

"Yes, but I haven't finished, now have I?" he snapped. "So listen! Even I don't fully comprehend how this dimension works. If you're not careful you could end up in any number of dangerous situations. And those who incur hi- Mortimer's displeasure don't end well. I used to have... "roommates", you know."

Harry pursed her lips. She would never take Tom at his word, but she remembered the way King's Cross had vanished so suddenly. And that-that dark tentacled _thing_. How she knew, without a doubt, that it could remove her from existence without any trouble at all.

Tom caught her eyes as she glanced up.

"You've see it too, haven't you?" he said. "I'm sorry."

"You're not," said Harry, exasperated. "I don't think you even know how to be sorry, truly sorry. You can't get me with that anymore."

"I'm not trying- whatever. Like you said, it's not like you'd believe me anyway."

"Right," Harry said, resolving to ignore that as unimportant. "Well, I won't hurt myself. No need to worry about Morty being mean to you."

Tom didn't move. His pretty, battered face was a study in stubbornness.

"I won't stop you from going," he said at last, stepping aside. Harry tried not to let her astonishment show, instantly suspecting a trick of some kind.

"Great, thanks," Harry said hastily, blurring that last 's' into the Parsletongue password. 

"But that doesn't mean I'm not coming with you," Tom finished, taking the lead in two long strides, feet crunching on a blanket of a thousand tiny bones. "I'll not be fed to a cheap Chuthulu imitation because you blunder your way into a nest of wraiths and get eaten."

Harry opened her mouth to say something rude, but what came out was, 

"Wraiths?"

"Kin of some kind to Dementors. And when a soul is all that's left of you, an attack is equal to death. True oblivion, not this farce," he said, gesturing to their surroundings with absolute disgust. 

"How do you fight them?"

"You don't. Best bet is to run and hope you're with someone slower than you are."

"There _must _be a way," Harry objected. "The Patronus Charm-"

He shook his head. They reached bottom of the tunnel leading back to Myrtle's bathroom.

"_Stairs_. Common theory states that a Patronus is created through the mingling of physical and spiritual magical energies, and without the endorphins produced by the recollection of a "happy" memory the trigger for the intersection is unavailable for-"

"Okay, wait just a second. Say that again but slower," said Harry, who had struggled with academics even at the best of times. Which theses were most certainly not.

Instead of the contempt and cruelty she expected, Tom nodded easily.

"You know what endorphins are, correct?" he said. 

"Er, they're these little chemicals in our brains that make us happy?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?" Tom smirked.

"Asking you, Professor Riddle, obviously," she snapped, rolling her eyes. For a psychopathic murderer, he could be such a Hermione sometimes. 

They emerged from the tunnel into Myrtle's bathroom, and Harry half expected to see a silvery head of pigtails poke up out of a toilet.

"Well, though that's a terribly simplistic way of putting it, you're correct in essence. Despite all evidence to the contrary, such as blood and the pain of broken bones, we are not actually in possession of physical bodies, so we can't produce endorphins. Though feeling happiness is still possible, which... suggests that-"

"Emotions are more than 'biological responses evolved in order to continue the survival of the human race'? Gee, Tom, if only someone could have told you that, say, five or so years ago."

"Oh shut up, Harry," he scoffed. 

She grinned mockingly, and he rolled his eyes. 

Suddenly, the sheer normality of the situation hit her. She was strolling down the Charms corridor with Tom Riddle, chatting and bickering like old friends. Bile rose, and Harry sped up so she was in the lead. She didn't want to look at him. 

Tom started walking faster. Harry glared, but he had his hands in his pockets, waltzing along with a look of utmost ease. She gnawed her lip, eyes narrowing, but soon began to fall behind despite her best efforts. So she started jogging, overtaking him. Harry was certain the mighty Lord Voldemort would not lower himself to running in the corridors like a Firstie.

She was wrong, and soon Harry found herself hurtling up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower at a dead sprint, pulling ahead by slow inches. Ususally she was running away from him, not with him, but Harry was nothing if not competitive and she refused to lose to a seventy year old dead man.

Her hands slammed into the portrait hole a bare second before Tom's.

"First!" Harry yelled before she could think better of it.

"I'll say!" the Fat Lady's portrait protested.

Tom's laugh was more of a wheeze as he doubled over, breathing hard. She wasn't sure how things worked when apparently they had no bodies, but she was glad she had him beat at one thing at least. 

Tom Riddle could learn obscure theory in the time it took her to brush her teeth, but at least she could still outrun a stampeding Hippogriff. Harry knew she was fast, faster than she had any right to be. Hermione theorized it was an act of accidental magic as a child that had become permanent. The mystery was how Tom kept up. Or. Okay nevemind. Probably the same reason as her.

"Password?" the portrait repeated impatiently. 

"Er, locusts," Harry said automatically, which it had been the last time she visited. And to her shock, it worked. She looked over at Tom, but he was already climbing through the hole, mumbling something about bleed-through and Pensieves, clearly thinking out loud. Harry decided she didn't care to ask. She didn't want to see any more of his face than she had to. 

"Okay. I'm going to bed," she said, though she walked slowly through the common room. Everything was exactly as Harry remembered, right down to the ink stain on her favorite armchair. 

"Good luck," Tom said, snorting. "No physical bodies, remember?"

"Blood and broken bones, remember?" she mimicked. "My nonexistent body is yelling at me to sleep. I shall obey. Now goodbye. I'll trust you not to do anything dastardly because Mortimer will feed your immortal soul to that cheap Chuthulu imitation in the basement."

And then Harry climbed the stairs to her dorm, and stopped, going stock still. A change from her memories at last. It wasn't her dorm room. It was her _house_, the one she accidentally blew by because she, like an idiot, had used a fire charm after forgetting to turn the gas off.  
  
_Should have gotten an electric stove_, she thought dazedly. She ran her fingers over her bed, a familiar Gryffindor four poster she certainly had never owned before. Harry was... thankful it was there, she supposed, and nothing but suspicious as to why it was. Not how. The air still tasted of acrid power. 

Well, Harry was used to that, what with Mortimer stalking her for months and all. So she locked the door, changed into her pajamas, and gleefully passed out. No luck needed, Tommy boy, but thanks anyway. 

And woke up screaming what felt like minutes later. She screamed and screamed and couldn't stop, her head on fire, full of death and darkness and perversions of nature that never should have been, things with no faces and too many, things that floated like wriggling sea urchins through the air, latching onto people's brains, things that stared into the darkest most secret parts of her soul and laughed, eye-less faces stretching into grotesque grins-

Tom. Tom shaking her shoulders, yelling her name. Harry shut her mouth but the screaming still echoed in her head. She couldn't brea-

Tom wrapped her violently shaking form in his arm and held her tight, murmuring a constant stream of words she couldn't hear, and Harry shamefully couldn't resist the proffered comfort. Not with monsters dancing in her head. She clung to him, warm and solid and far more present than he claimed to be. She couldn't let go, not even when the screaming faded into Tom Riddle rambling on about experimental hexes, which was rather fascinating. 

Harry just hugged him, forehead on his shoulder so she didn't have to see his face, quiet and tired and never going to sleep again. And then of course, naturally she fell asleep anyway, sitting in bed with _Voldemort_ of all people. She didn't dream of anything, except perhaps the gentle drone of Tom Riddle reciting potion recipes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: brief horror type elements, mentions of dying via gas explosion (non-graphic), very mild blood, idk. It's pretty tame, for me.


	8. Mending Bridges Burned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am unstoppable, muahahaha! I haven't had so much free time in years. It's kinda crazy, man. And because we all probably need something happy, I give you some baking and fluff, with minimal angst.
> 
> Although, I just gotta say: what Harry and Tom have right now is NOT a healthy relationship, even without the murdery past thing. Hitting isn't okay! Ever! If anyone, man or woman, treats you even remotely like those two did last chapters, dump their dumb butt! So yeah. This is very far fetched fantastical fiction. It's enemies to friends to hey-actually-i-think-I-like-you-oops. It's not a good basis for a relationship.
> 
> So yeah. Anyway, hope you like it. :)

Harry woke to arms around her waist and something living pressed against her cheek. She froze, wishing for a wand. But Tom's grip was loose and Harry was able to slip away easily enough. She carefully peeled her face off of Tom's chest and scooted back. 

Harry sat back, rather proud of herself, and then froze for a second time. Tom was awake. They made eye contact, him smirking, Harry mortified. 

"Good morning, sunshine," he said, thick with irony. 

"...Gah," she said, and rolled out of bed. She couldn't deal with that right then. Mortimer had given her back her kitchen. There was baking to be done. 

Tom padded in behind her, looking around curiously. In his conjured Hogwarts pajamas and bare feet he could have been any upper year student enjoying sleeping in over the weekend. 

"So this is your house," he mused. "Cheerful. Bright. Aggravating. Just like you."

"Your house must have been a filthy bug-infested cave, then," she said as she went about manually gathering ingredients. What she wouldn't give for magic right now. 

Then, because if he was going to be hanging around in her kitchen like a useless lump:

"Grab the skillet, Riddle, and the eggs and milk," Harry ordered. And to her surprise, he actually did so. 

"Why are you cooking?" he asked. "It's not as though we have to eat."

"First of all, I am _not _cooking. I only do that if I have to. I'm baking. Second of all, start greasing these pans." 

Appearing equal parts baffled and amused, Tom took the butter from her. 

Harry turned away from him and started whisking eggs, flour, chocolate powder and other things into a batter. She felt like chocolate, and she felt like brownies, so triple fudge brownies she would have. 

Harry checked on Tom, and upon finding him done with the buttering, asked him to fetch the miniature chocolate chips. He kept doing as she asked with an easy grace she never would have attributed to Tom Riddle. But he was quiet, almost thoughtful, as he helped. If Harry didn't know better, she'd say he was actually enjoying baking. 

_And do you really know better? _A floaty, Luna-esque voice said. _Is it really a trick? Or has he changed? Voldemort was a monster, but Tom was only a boy. _

...If Harry didn't stop hearing advice in the voices of good friends, she was going to get suspicious. But still, watching him out of the corner of her eye, Harry could admit that this did appear to be far more Tom than Voldemort. And she doubted it was an act; the Dark Lord would never stand barefoot in a muggle kitchen being ordered around by the Girl Who Lived, no matter what he stood to gain from it. Tom Riddle though, he was more pragmatic than prideful. He could swallow his ego to make allies. 

Allies. Ha. There was a thought. But Tom was terrified of Mortimer, and it appeared that she was the only available ally. But even as she watched him drizzle caramel over brownies with exacting precision, she doubted she would ever be an ally to Tom Riddle. Temporarily working in the same direction of "don't get eaten" yes, but actually working together? Not a chance. 

"You know Harry, we do work well together," Tom said, teasing. What-?! 

"I could be your sous chef," he continued. "Serve ice-cream cake to inferi and doughnuts to Dementors."

"Don't forget bundt cakes to boggarts," she said sarcastically, still rattled. Had he known what she was thinking of was it just a coincidence?

"Waffles to wraiths," Tom said, apparently still intent upon this charade. He looked weirdly happy, wore a small content smile she'd never seen before. It made her feel bad for doubting him, and angry for feeling guilty, so she snapped at him. 

"Okay, stop. That's it. Stop playing games, Riddle. You're not going to get anything from me that way, so you might as well come out with it. What do you want?"

He gritted his teeth, the first sign of the real Tom she'd gotten since before that--since the awful vision she wasn't going to think about. If he thought he was going to get in her good graces by being all nice and helpful while she was upset, he was wrong. 

Tom set down his drizzle spoon, licked some caramel off his hand, and took a seat at her table. He gestured gracious for her to join him. At her _own_ table. Harry stayed standing.

"Alright," he said, unbothered by the way she tried very hard to look over him. "I'm not going to deny ulterior motives; that would be insulting to even your intelligence. But we are on the same side now."

Harry scoffed but Tom continued, unbothered. 

"I'm certainly aware that you won't believe me, not at first. I won't say what I've deduced in my time here because I know very well Mortimer can hear us at all times. But you'll see soon enough; we _have_ to work together. There is no choice."

"You mean you don't have a choice," Harry pointed out coldly. "He needs me alive, not you."

"Technically true, but my presence will make things exponentially more convenient for him. And besides, don't you want somebody in your corner? Mortimer is more powerful than anything you've faced and you know it."

"Better no ally than one who'll stab you in the back."

"Maybe. But I won't betray you, Harry." His lips quirked upwards. "Not to him at least."

"What, and that's supposed to be reassuring?" she asked, staring at him. 

"Yes, actually." Tom leaned back in his chair, buffed his nails on his shirt, and smiled up at her through his lashes. 

"You're ridiculous," Harry said, but couldn't help an amused grin. He looked so silly, sitting there with bed head in her flowery yellow seat and acting like a spoiled prince on a throne. 

She shook her head.

"No, Tom, I don't think so. I can't trust you, not like this. You're a psychopath--that's not even an insult, just the truth."

He was quiet. Pained. 

"Not anymore."

"Excuse me?" Harry demanded, because by Merlin, if he tried to sell that he had _repented_ of a neurological disorder she would hit him again, bad idea or not. 

"You said it yourself," Tom said, twisting her tablecloth between his pale hands. "Psychopathy is neurological. And I don't have neurons anymore, not as such. Not physical onces anyway. This, combined with my recent discovery that emotions are from the soul..."

Harry was. Well, for a good long second she was stunned. Then disbelief kicked in, followed quickly by a Hermione-voice that told her it sounded perfectly plausible, even logical, if Tom truly was dead. 

"I don't believe you." Tom started to speak, but she held up a hand. "Not yet, anyway. It...does sound like that could happen, but you're a liar and we both know it. It would be insulting to even your intelligence to accepted your word without proof."

Tom snorted at her mimicry of his earlier statement. 

"Which is why," Harry said, lips splitting into her most wicked smile. "I'll be asking Death, among other things."

Crackle. Sulfur. Electricity. 

"You rang," Death drawled, leaning against her counter. 

"Oh good," said Harry brightly, as if her heart hadn't catapulted itself into her esophagus. "Have a brownie, Mort."

Tom choked. 

"A what." He gave her a look of utmost contempt, but Harry was unfortunately becoming well enough attuned to reading his aura and not his face, so she caught the faintly amused confusion beneath the fake look. 

"A brownie. Yummy, chocolatey goodness for the soul, with caramel on top."

"You are aware this is all in your head?"

"Why on earth should that mean it's not real?" she quoted with a bittersweet smile. 

"I don't have a soul in need of nourishment. You had something to ask, Master Dear." Death said, apparently impatient. He was rapidly getting better at facial expressions. 

"Have one anyway and I'll shut up." Harry waved the plate under his nose. 

"Fine." He snatched one and took an agressive bite. Paused. Looked down at the brownie in his stolen hand. 

"Disgusting," he lied, stuffing the rest of it in his mouth. Tom made another choking sound, and Harry glanced over to make sure he wasn't actually dying again. 

"Right Then! You heard What Tommy said about his no longer being a psychopath, yes? Is it true or not?"

"Not," Death said promptly. "People don't really change just because they're dead. He's lying, as he always is. Now, if my Master doesn't mind, I have a Chuthulu imitation to feed. He's getting hungry waiting for more vermin to snack on." 

And with that, Death scooped up the entire plate of brownies, made a rude gesture, and vanished like the million year old petty man child that he was. 

"Well," Harry said, turning back to Tom. He looked halfway between angry and resigned.

"Welcome to the world of emotions, Tom. Don't worry, you'll hate it here."

Tom's mouth fell open. Harry wished she had a camera on hand. 

"Wait, you believe me, even after-"

"Mortimer _despises_ you, Riddle," Harry said, carefully not mentioning she could sort of sense Death's feelings. "Of course he would say whatever made you look the worst. And you know that, so if you really were trying to trick me, you'd have tried to stop me from talking to him."

"Oh," Tom sort of whispered, looking far more stunned than the situation merited. "No one has ever believed me before. I mean. Not once they really knew _me_."

Harry coughed awkwardly. She was honestly taking the revelation that the former Lord Voldemort could now feel and hurt like a normal human being better than he was the idea that someone believed him. And that was even better proof than Death's words. 

"Well, don't go thinking I trust you or anything drastic like that," she said. 

Tom laughed. 

"I would expect nothing less." And he smiled up at her, dimples never seen before popping in his cheeks, dark gray eyes lightening to the color of quicksilver. Her breath abandoned her immediately, and suddenly Harry was a twelve year old girl again, watching her best friend, the only boy she had ever fancied, claw his way out of a bleak paper prison. 

_Oh no. I am in so much trouble. _


	9. Encounter

Harry liked to think she snapped out of her little daze quickly. But she couldn't shake the riotous emotions sprouting in her chest. Tom kept _looking_ at her, like she was something he'd never seen before. It was unnerving.

"What?" she huffed finally.

"Mm. I think I've just figured out how you kept up such a following when you don't even know Gamp's Laws from the Five Constraints of Transfiguration."

Harry threw her hands up in the air.

"Because they're literally the same thing!"

"See? What I said."

"Oh shut _up_," she snapped. "Know-it-all."

Surprisingly, the insult slid right off his back. Tom even smiled, bizarrely happy looking. Harry looked at him warily. Usually when Tom smiled was the point where your started running, but this smile didn't seem like that smile.

"Do you think it's possible to miss something you've never had?" he asked. 

"Of course," said Harry, who had never known her parents and longed for them every day. "Why?"

"Because I've missed this." He captured her gaze. "It's..._nice_."

"You don't have to make the word sound like an insult, you know," Harry said, sidestepping the real sentiment. Tom allowed it with that same easy grace as before.

"Of course." 

"Ugh, stop. Why are you being so...so-"

"Nice?" he suggested. A hint of a smirk lit dark eyes. 

"Yeah, sure. Just because you aren't a psychopath anymore doesn't mean you're suddenly all sweet and innocent! If you're just trying to get me to trust you, give it up."

Tom glanced at her through his eyelashes. His head was bowed, loose curls falling into his eyes. A hesitant smile touched his lips.

"Maybe...Maybe I just like you."

A beat of silence. Harry felt her face turn red. 

"Shut up Riddle!" she screeched, hitting him repeatedly with a nearby plastic spatula. He laughed and caught her wrist, smirking when she immediately tried to pull away.

"Get off!"

"Touchy," he murmured, but gave her wrist a light squeeze and let go. 

"Like you aren't," she said, ignoring the way her skin tingled where Tom touched her.

"Perhaps."

They lapsed into silence that should have been awkward but somehow wasn't. Tom had yet to look away from her but his gaze was unfocused, making it easier for Harry's own thoughts to drift. 

Death...now that the Riddle Issue was resolved, or at least no longer a top priority, Death's mysterious ulterior motives were coming to the forefront of her mind. 

"Tom," she began, "do you have any idea what it is that Mortimer wants from us?"

His eyes refocused. Tom sighed and planted his elbows on the table, fingers steepled in front of him like the stereotypical villain of a comic book. 

"I have my suspicions. It may be dangerous just to talk about, you understand."

"Lets talk about it anyway," said Harry who was getting tired of not knowing _how_ or _why_ and had always been Gryffindor to the core.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Fine. But as the indespensible one, you have to promise to step in if Mortimer is about to feed me to his pet monster."

"Deal." Harry, struck by a surge of mischief, decided to spit in her hand before she held it out to shake, just like Dudley and his thugs used to do. Tom was a total priss, there was to way he would--

Tom spat into his own hand and shook.

"I think you're forgetting that I grew up in the nineteen thirties in the bad parts of London. I was spit swearing before your grandfather was born. Oh, and deal, by the way."

Harry wiped her hand off on her trousers. Tom used a napkin. 

"Okay then, spill," she prompted. 

"You are familiar with the Tale of the Three Brothers, yes?"

"Unfortunately."

"Indeed. As you have no doubt ascertained, the tale has basis in reality. What you may not know is that we are both descended from the fabled brothers. I possess the blood of Antioch and Cadmus Peverell both, due to incessant inbreeding, while the Potters carry the blood of Ignotus. What's more, we are both the last of our bloodlines."

"Okay...so why would Death need us because of that?"

"I'm getting there. As far as I am aware, you and I are their only remaining descendants, period. And as we both know, magical blood is a powerful tool with properties even wizards haven't fully discovered. I am...uncertain as to what Death wants with us specifically, but I have no doubt that it involves our unique heritage."

"Or it could just be that I'm the so-called Master of Death and you're the Dark Lord who cheated him," Harry said. "Maybe it has nothing to do with our blood."

Tom shook his head, lips pinched. 

"There's more. I told you before there were others."

"Oh right. Your 'roommates'," Harry remembered. 

"Yes. Do you know what we had in common? Every single one of us was descended from one of the Peverells. And the oldest was Ignotus Peverell himself."

"Wait...they were all Peverells? I mean, did he just kill everyone descended from the Three Brothers?"

"I believe so. We are the last."

A thought struck her. Harry lurched to her feet. "Does that mean you saw my father?!"

But Tom was already shaking his head. "I'm sorry. The only Potter left here was your great uncle, I believe."

"Oh." She sat down. "What happened? Why are you the only one left?"

"Most of them were fed to the chuthulu imitation or a wraith. A lucky few were sent on to what is conventionally called heaven. I am inclined to believe that your father was included in the latter category."

"Thanks Tom," Harry mumbled, staring down at her hands. He was quiet, awkward and guilty. Harry forced a smile and changed the subject.

"Er, how did you avoid being eaten?"

Tom went with it. 

"Mortimer used to test us. The losers of his little games would die and the winners would either stay 'alive' or go on to another plane of existence. By the time I got here there were less than a dozen left, the best, but I've always been good at winning. I...well, one of them was my...mother. She was waiting for--"

Tom cut himself off. He looked so quietly devastated, dark eyes shining, that Harry couldn't help but reach over and take his hand. Tom squeezed back so hard her bones ground together.

"Anyway, she's gone now, so it hardly matters," Tom growled, wiping with absolute fury at his wet eyes. "I won."

"She must have loved you very much," Harry said softly. Tom shrugged the words off violently.

"Yes, and a fat lot of good it did her," he sneered, standing to pace the kitchen. "She should have left me be, moved on and saved herself."

"She just wanted to meet you," Harry protested, standing up as well. 

"Which is more than you can say. James Potter couldn't even be bothered to stick around less than two decades!"

"Don't you try and make this about me!"

"Well why not? Isn't it always about _you_?" Tom stalked closer.

"Shut up!" Harry yelled. "And to think I actually believed you'd changed, but no! You're just as cruel as you always were!"

Something shuttered in his eyes.

"Oh, but I can be so much worse, darling," he purred, moving closer still. Harry darted sideways but Tom reeled her back in with a silent spell and trapped her in a grotesque parody of romantic embrace. "You remember this, hm?"

"Tom," Harry breathed, trembling with anger, "you have five seconds to let go of me before I call off our truce completely. One."

Tom planted his chin on her shoulder.

"Two."

His breath tickled her ear. 

"Three."

Tom pulled her flush against his chest.

"_Four_."

And he let go. 

Harry stepped back and smoothed out her clothing. She stared evenly at Tom but he refused to meet her eye. He looked angry and exhausted and ashamed, and for the life of her Harry could not tell if it was an act. 

"Riddle. _Don't_ follow me."

She turned and strode out the door. No footsteps followed. 

Harry broke and ran down the stairs, leaping the last five and diving through the portrait hole. She made it all the way down to the fourth floor before she had to slow to a walk. 

"I hate him so much," she said aloud. "I can't believe...for a second there, I really thought we could work together. But he hasn't changed at all! Not being a psychopath doesn't magically make him a good person! I can't _do_ this!"

"Oh, honey. Of course you can!"

Harry shrieked and spun around, only to find herself staring back at _Moaning Myrtle_. She was smoky gray instead of silvery white, and Harry had never heard Myrtle call anyone _honey_, but other than that the ghost was identical to the one in her memory. 

"Myrtle?"

"Oh, you know me, then?"

"What?" Harry asked. "Of course I do! Don't you remember?"

"Sorry luv," Myrtle floated closer and shrugged. "I don't get much from my counterpart."

"Counterpart? Is that the Mo--I mean, the Myrtle that haunts the real Hogwarts?"

"Yep! She's an absolute bore, I know. I'm a little more fun, or so I like to think."

"You are," Harry assured her, as if she knew. "Though I have to ask...What are you?"

"The other half of Myrtle Warren. You see, when a soul chooses to become a ghost, part of them has to stay in the dead realm and act as an anchor. That's me, unfortunately."

"That sounds awful," Harry said. Myrtle nodded emphatically. 

"Oh it is, honey. But you know, there's something you can do to make it a little better."

"Name it," she said immediately. Myrtle smiled. Harry had never seen her do such a thing before, and it was shockingly lovely.

"_Thank_ you. I won't forget your sacrifice."

Sacrifice?

The hall went cold. Myrtle's smile stretched up past her ears. Her skin was black and mottled with gray, her eye sockets hollow and empty, limbs long and stick thin. 

"You'll make a lovely meal, my dear. Myrtle will thank you for keeping her alive.

**Author's Note:**

> No swearing in the comments, por favor! It gives me gas *insert ultra serious face here*


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